


Spit The Dark

by fuckingspacequeen



Series: Our Hell is a Good Life [1]
Category: Ender's Game - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Kate is a dick, M/M, Not even gen depictions of violence don't worry, Pre-Slash, SPN is scarier than this, This really has nothing to do with Ender's Game at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:23:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckingspacequeen/pseuds/fuckingspacequeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes less than thirty seconds for the champion to send the kid crashing to the floor. His head smashes against the steel, and Stiles can see the blood pooling around his ear, wonders if he’s dead, the crowd’s roar of approval deafening him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spit The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> So, for those of you who have read/seen Ender's Game, this is kind of based in Enderverse. 
> 
> In the sense that this tiny crazy bit of writing is based on a spaceship on which Earth is funding the training of kids into fighting machines, basically. Other than that, it's nothing like Enderverse at alllll, so you can really pretend it has no basis in the book/film, and it doesn't really matter if you've seen it or not.
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> Thanks to batmaniatis for betaing! <3

It’s been three years since Stiles has qualified to elbow his way to the front of the crowd. He’s on the wrong side of the room, technically, his classmates packed in, shoulder to shoulder, on the opposite side of the fight going on in the centre. If Stiles squints, he can just about make out the people he likes least. He doesn’t squint.

In front of him the so-called ‘champion’ circles around one of the oldest kids, who despite being about a head taller than him doesn’t seem to actually have any advantages whatsoever. Stiles runs a practised eye over the pair, feigning boredom – he even convinces himself of this, of his distaste for what the institution calls a privilege, despite the fact that he can feel the fight in his veins; the same way he knows the rest of the crowd, surging forward and urging on their champion, can.

It takes less than thirty seconds for the champion to send the kid crashing to the floor. His head smashes against the steel, and Stiles can see the blood pooling around his ear, wonders if he’s dead, the crowd’s roar of approval deafening him.

Their champion lifts his arms and roars with the crowd, doing a lap of the circle which, briefly, becomes smaller, as various students move forward to congratulate him. He’s barely broken a sweat, t-shirt riding up to reveal a glimpse of tan skin which Stiles finds himself focussing on.

There’s a brief lull in the cheering and then a voice comes over the tannoy as if on cue and everyone quietens down to listen. The silence rings in Stiles’ ears, leaves a bad taste in his mouth, the way everyone is instantly and perfectly quiet because they’ve been told to be. But he’s quiet, too; listening.

It turns out that the champion’s next challenger, a firm favourite among Stiles’ peers, has come down with some kind of illness. Nobody gets any details beyond the fact that Boyd _won’t_ be fighting and Stiles is almost angry because _of course_ it would be the first year he’s been allowed in that this would happen.

He’s even less prepared for the announcement that a challenger is welcome to try and take on the champion in Boyd’s place, and while the crowd erupts into uneasy murmurs, nobody actually volunteers. Stiles isn’t exactly surprised by this because the last guy left looking like he was in for either brain damage or death, depending on how the cards fell.

The silence stretches past breaking point, and he doesn’t give himself a chance to think it through before elbowing his way forward. His voice sounds too loud even to his own ears as he says, “I’ll do it.”

Everyone turns to look at him, the circle miraculously expanding to include Stiles as he moves toward the centre.

Derek Hale clearly doesn’t know who he is, and Stiles can see that in the confused way that he looks him over; he’s clearly taking in the broad shoulders hidden underneath an oversized t-shirt, what Stiles knows is his otherwise deceptively lithe body, which the champion is no doubt categorizing as lanky. Stiles doesn’t look like a threat, is the point. Hale probably thinks he’s fresh off the boat.

He grins instead of letting him in on the secret, because there’d be no fun in that. Stiles is more than used to people underestimating him; half the time it’s how he wins. The other half the time he wins because he’s good – and, okay, maybe sometimes he wins because he’s a cheat. It’s one of the reasons he’s not normally allowed in here, isn’t it?

Hale raises his eyebrows in response to Stiles’ grin, but then turns his gaze to the left and nods at someone Stiles can’t see, clearly agreeing to something – to this? – before the voice over the tannoy announces that they’ve found their new challenger.

Stiles isn’t exactly anticipating the laughter that erupts, followed by jeers, and catcalls, and whatever else – but he’s also not entirely surprised by it. Half the students surrounding them probably think the same thing the champion does. The rest? Well, Stiles has never been good, exactly, at making friends. More like bad, really, if his track record is anything to go by.

It doesn’t matter. He watches Hale roll his shoulders back, muscles straining against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. It’s an obscene display, Stiles thinks, as he steps forward to meet his opponent.

As they shake hands, he really doesn’t expect the quiet, honeyed voice as Hale murmurs, “Good luck.” Honestly, Stiles isn’t entirely sure what to make of that, and he tells himself that’s the reason he magnanimously takes the first punch.

He goes down. _Hard._

The crowd goes wild, and Stiles is about eighty percent certain it’s because it looks like he’s already lighted out. For a second, it feels like he has, but the punch is what he needed, honestly, because it’s like everything in his body has zoned in on the fight. It’s like, he can taste his own blood in his mouth and now _he’s_ the one out for blood.

Hale looks frankly shocked as Stiles staggers to his feet, and maybe it’s misplaced pity, or maybe he wants to punch Stiles again, because he hangs back and actually lets Stiles get his bearings.

Which, big mistake on his part, really. Stiles grins at him, teeth bloody, and then springs.

For five years he’s been kicked out of his classes for cheating, for using moves that aren’t legal, for doing something that isn’t in The Plan. For five years, he’s been trying to tell them that real life doesn’t work that way, you don’t get the luxury of following the rules. The bad guys don’t follow the goddamn rules.

Hale isn’t a bad guy, and he may be the current champion, but he’s also the antithesis of Stiles. He’s the Golden Boy, the one who can do no wrong, because he follows every last rule down to the _letter_ , and he makes it look good while he’s at it. But then, he’s never so much as laid eyes on Stiles before, has he? Let alone sparred with him.

The first time Hale hits the floor the room goes deathly silent.

It looks for a moment like he might not get back up, but then he does, and Stiles politely hangs back, partly because Hale did so for him, but more because he wants the fight to last longer than this.

A glance at the timer tells him they’ve been in the people-made ring for less than two minutes. He could keep this up for another five, if he wanted, but Stiles has spent too-long not being allowed to fight with anything even approaching a human being. He needs this as much as the crowd does, and it sickens him to know that about himself, but it’s a bit late for that now.

Hale gets in two more hits and also hits the floor twice more himself before Stiles deals his privately dubbed ‘death blow’. He’s not a killer, however, and perhaps that’s another reason he’s being constantly reprimanded, because he doesn’t just send the champion careening into the steel floor. He could. He knows the exact angle and velocity needed to kill him with a single well-aimed blow. But he’s not a killer. He’s not a killer.

Instead, Stiles takes some of the impact on himself and they both hit the floor, Stiles with his hands ready to cut off the last of Hale’s air.

“Concede?” he asks, voice deceptively light, ignoring the way Hale’s eyes are a myriad of colours up close; the way greens and golds intermingle, reminding Stiles of autumn back on Earth.

There’s a beat, and he thinks that maybe he overestimated Hale, before he answers, choked off, “Concede.”

Stiles gets off, straightens up, and can’t help the grin that spreads across his features as he realises that, in amongst booing, people are actually cheering. For him.

It’s surreal as hell.

He doesn’t bother with any kind of victory lap, because he may have just beaten the champion, but he’s still not exactly popular, and honestly, Stiles isn’t certain some of them wouldn’t kill him just for winning. Instead, he lets the crowd part for him and makes a beeline for the changing rooms.

It’s only as he leaves the noise of the training room that he realises Hale has followed him, and Stiles is halfway to turning to look at him when he asks, “How come I’ve never seen you fight before?”

It’s a fair question, and Stiles typically doesn’t get the chance to answer it. Kate Argent, when she comes sashaying in, pins Stiles with a look that implies he’s less than shit on her shoe; he’s an annoying bug caught on her windshield. The kind she intends to crush.

“Because he’s never qualified before,” Argent says, wrapping an arm around Hale’s waist and slotting herself against him.

Hale’s confusion is more than evident in his features, and he looks between Argent and Stiles as he says, “That’s impossible.”

Stiles bites back the urge to laugh. Hale isn’t wrong, exactly; someone with Stiles’ skill should be known for being the top of his class, should be participating in everything. He should be leading one of the fighting parties, by all rights. Stiles knows this, of course he does.

 But what the school values more than it values fighters is soldiers; it values those who can take orders without asking questions and follow them to the letter. It values those who can regurgitate every lesson perfectly. What the school, and its leaders, don’t value are people like Stiles. Stiles, who asks too many questions and always deviates from the plan. Stiles, who values improvisation and spontaneity more than he values rules and regulations.

Argent is the one who laughs, although it comes out as more of a scoff. “He’s only still here because his dad is in a position of authority.” The words hit home a little too hard, purely because it isn’t exactly untrue.

Hale still looks confused and Stiles ducks down to tie up his shoelace, half to avoid the look on the champion’s face, and half because he just might punch Kate Argent if he doesn’t.

“Ask him if it’s true, Derek,” Argent continues, because she either has no self-preservation instinct or thinks she’s somehow safe from Stiles’ temper. She isn’t, but maybe Stiles isn’t exactly in any position to lash out. Maybe Stiles knows better than that.

Instead of giving Hale the chance to ask, he straightens up. “Why don’t you tell _Derek_ about all the money your dad had to sink into the school for you to qualify?” he grits out, and point to Stiles, because Argent’s smug expression turns into something apoplectic before he can even finish speaking.

He shoots Hale the cheekiest grin he can muster and then leaves. He’s probably going to end up confined to quarters for engaging in a fight anyway. Might as well get a head start on that front.


End file.
